


OKAY.

by Xoxo_Sadie21



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Imprinting (Twilight)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:15:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26522770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xoxo_Sadie21/pseuds/Xoxo_Sadie21
Summary: Quil takes you on a walk along the shore. You're not surprised to find out what's been making him so jittery.
Relationships: Quil Ateara V/Reader, Quil Ateara V/You
Kudos: 36





	OKAY.

You can tell it’s eating him up inside. Just with one sidelong glance in his direction tells you that he’s never been more anxious. And – okay, even though you shouldn’t – there is a part of you that wants him to sear in his inner turmoil simply because the sight of him shambling along the shore, and his large hands stuffed deep into his pockets, is nothing short of endearingly pitiful. 

The gentle breeze of the night blows through your hair, sending strands askew. You irritably swipe them away, but it’s hard to keep a hold on your emotions when you can practically feel the soft intensity of Quil’s eyes on the side of your face. You’re sure that all you’d have to do is blink and that’s all it would take for his focus to consume you. Crazy as it sounds. But then again, it isn’t the craziest thing you’ve heard tonight. 

“So, it’s true.” 

He isn’t even that close to you, careful of boundaries, and you can still feel him tense up. 

“Yeah,” he says, and it’s barely a murmur. He sounds oddly relieved. “Yeah, it’s all true.” 

You nod, mostly to yourself, keeping your eyes on the sand sinking in between the crevices of your toes. “And you’re...?” 

“A shape-shifter. Yeah.” 

Another breeze sweeps through your hair, rustling your shirt. An involuntary shudder wracks through your form. Before your brain can comprehend the weight of this new reality, something warm enshrouds your shoulders. You jump slightly, head swiveling around just in time to catch Quil draping his incredibly cozy flannel over your shoulders. 

You watch him warily, distracted by the way the moonlight casts an iridescent glow over his russet skin. He glances at you shyly whilst long, deft fingers play at the collar of the shirt, and then reluctantly lowers his hands, cheeks darkening. 

He attempts to clear his throat, appearing bashful. “You were cold.” 

In an act completely out of your control, you hug the flannel tighter to your frame, fingers curling around the fuzzy coziness. You burrow your face in the fabric as every inch of you ignites in an otherworldly warmth. 

“Thank you,” you mutter. You hope he can hear you, considering your face is smushed into his flannel – his ridiculously massive flannel that hangs past your thighs and almost cocoons you whole. 

Quil nearly trips over his own two feet, catching himself last minute and straightening back up. When he speaks next, he sounds all but winded, “Of – of course.” 

Refraining from laughing at his unexpected clumsiness, you finally force yourself to stop walking. You whirl around to face him, mind stuttering breathlessly as you take in the expression on his face. The adoration on his face is painstakingly tangible and fierce, unrivaled to that of anything you’ve ever seen. It has you shell-shocked. All you can do is blink owlishly up at him – and he’s a massive man, standing at about six foot three. You can get lost in his eyes and feel unbothered by the way they slowly make their way over every inch of your face as if he’s trying to commit you to memory. 

You think it’s making you high. 

“Quil?” 

His eyes fly back over to yours like gravity, and, if you look closely, you can faintly see that his pupils are blown black. He’s completely heavenward and you’ve barely said more than five words to him. 

You tilt your head. “Are you drunk?”

The crease between Quil’s forehead has you wishing you could take it all back. He blinks once, then twice, maybe three times, and gradually comes back. But you can’t help but notice that his pupils have remained enlarged, glazed over, filled with that same soul-lifting fondness. 

Then he laughs, and the sound of it, like deep, rich velvet, twists up the inside of your tummy. “No,” he says softly, eyes crinkling in his bliss. “No, I’m not drunk. Just happy.” 

_Oh_. You gulp, averting your eyes. They land on a nearby log, not too far off course from the bonfire happening a little ways back. From here, you can dimly make out the rowdy laughter of the boys, or rather, _the pack_ , as Quil mentioned earlier. You aim a placid smile up at him, and jerk your head toward the log sitting at the edge of the coppice of trees near the woods. 

He understands your silent suggestion without you needing to say anything, and starts walking alongside you. To his surprise, instead of taking a spot on the log, you plop down on the sand and use it as a backrest. Wordlessly, he sinks down right next to you, but cautious of the spaces in between. 

“There’s something else.” 

You don’t turn to look at him as his gaze bores into the side of your face searchingly. It had been instant – the way he tensed up at the question. 

“There’s something else you’re not telling me.” 

Of course, you know Quil like the back of your hand. You used to spend a lot of the time learning about him, monitoring his mannerisms, figuring out what makes him tick, what makes him laugh and smile – what makes him blush. You’ve only known each other for a year. A year of hopelessly pining after the boy who sat next to you in Algebra. The boy that helped you with your homework, who let you cheat off of him whenever the teacher doomed the class with a pop quiz. The boy who held your books for you and walked you to your locker after every time the bell rang. You’re used to him. He’s _familiar_ to you. 

As you let Quil squirm in his spot beside you, you busy yourself with a stick that had been lying in the sand near your feet. You draw mindlessly – a star, the sun, the ocean’s waves. After a quiet moment, he finally gives in, exhaling on a tremulous breath. 

“Well – you see – it’s–”

A tiny grin creeps onto your face. “Quil, _breathe_.” 

As instructed, he breathes in through his nose and then out through his mouth. Even without having the need to look at him, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to understand that he’s nervous. Stiffly, slowly, he sinks into the sand and tips his head back, gazing up toward the sky.

“As a Quileute shape-shifter, we have a special...attribute. It’s called imprinting.” Quil glances at you out of the corner of his eye without moving his head. “It’s something we can’t control, and we can’t fight it – although, I don’t understand how anyone would want to...” he trails off, sighing wistfully. 

Your fingers grip the stick in your hand, but you don’t look away from the sand. You spell out your name. “You make it sound like it’s magic.” 

“That what it feels like,” he replies, voice oddly susurrated. “We become unequivocally bound to one person. Shackled, chained, tethered – whatever you want to call it.” 

You spell out Quil’s name. He watches you carefully, eyes trained and thoughtful and light and fond. 

“So, like soulmates?” 

“It’s more like being gravitationally pulled.”

You hum, contemplative. “What did it feel like for you?” 

He goes completely rigid in his spot, drenched in his disbelief. Had he really not thought you were smart enough to catch on so quick? 

“You – how did you–”

You shift in your spot and angle your body so that it’s facing him. The color had drained from his face, the light in his eyes now dull, guarded. Still, with the stick in your hand, you reach over and gently nudge him, pulling him back down, back to you, back to the now. 

He looks pained as he parts his lips to whisper, “How did you know?” 

“I’m used to you,” you answer, shoulder lifting in a casual shrug. “And because I have inhibited myself with you – way before some profound bond swooped in and made it permanent.” 

He stares on, seemingly lost for words. 

You take this time to really look at him. All hardened lines from months – possibly years – of asperity. Though, there’s still something intermingling. Now, Quil isn’t what you’d call super-model pretty by any means, but there’s a certain boyish softness that makes up for everything else. Like his chocolate tufts, curled, swaying against his forehead along with the breeze. And the way he smiles at you, cheeks split into dimples that give him that innocent charm. Then, there’s the kindness in his eyes, that glaze over every time he looks at you, or the way they dilate – like they are now – at the mere whisper of laughter floating across your lips, filled with such a heart-shuddering devotion that it steals the air from your lungs. 

The intensity in his eyes is too much, so you drag your gaze back down to the sand. The stick in your hand is lighter as it grazes, creating a dance of mindless art. Your lips quirk. “It’s always been easier with you,” you say meekly. “And you’ve always made me feel safe, so...” 

Summoning some courage, you etch a single word into the sand and peek at him through your lashes. His face goes slack as watches you with a brazen and heady wonder. By now, you’re not sure if you can be truly certain that he’s even paying attention. 

With a low laugh, you reach over and tilt his chin toward the sand: the word, ‘okay’, sprawled in your lazy handwriting. 

He understands immediately. The second his focus closes in on it, his head whips around too entirely quick that you’re worried he might’ve pulled something. 

Looking as if he may burst into tears, he finally splutters out, “O-okay?” 

You give him a single, fierce nod. 

“Okay.” 


End file.
